Biofire, page 29
“Hey, Ty. It’s P.W.”
“P.…W.?” The TV noise stopped abruptly. “Pee-Dubbuyah?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, that’s right. How’s things?”
“How’s things? How’s things, he’s asking me!” Ty roared with laughter. “I’ll be damned, you moth-eaten son of a bitch, where the hell you been? I was starting to think you were—hell, we all figured you were dead, or something.”
“You wanna know the truth, I was kinda dead for a while.”
“Yeah, well…we were pretty worried about you, P.W. You seemed to be keeping to yourself for a while, there, after Dolores left you. Hitting the bottle pretty hard. Then all of a sudden you were gone. Just disappeared, you miserable bastard, you. We looked for you, too, but no luck. What the hell happened to you?” Although his words were harsh, there was laughter in Ty’s voice.
“I would’ve said something to you guys, but…well, I wasn’t talking so well back then. I made noises like a duck and puked a lot, but that’s about it. Tell you the truth, I was too busy pissing my pants to make any phone calls.”
“Aw, jeez, P.W., I wish I’d known. I coulda done something, I coulda—”
“Hey, nobody could’ve done anything but me. And I finally did.”
“Well, how are things now?”
“They’re a lot better than they were, that’s for damned sure.”
“You still in the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Where you living.”
He did not reply for a moment, just togged on his beard a couple of times. “Oh…I’m around. Look, Ty, I was thinking maybe, uh…maybe the four of us could get together soon. Catch up.”
“That’d be great, P.W. Did you know Jess moved upstate? He’s got a little place in Burkett. He’s a suburbanite now.”
“Does that mean he’s unavailable?”
“Shit, no. He gets a haircut twice a week just to get away from his wife.”
“He’s still married, huh?”
“If you can call it that. She’s turned into one of those crazy cat ladies. She’s got about twenty of ’em. And that’s just inside the house. Plus, she’s ballooned up to about the size of a Baltic state. When do you wanna get together, P.W.? This weekend? Next weekend?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of right away. As soon as possible. Would that be okay?”
“Sounds like something’s up. You in trouble, P.W.?”
“Not me, no. But I’ve, uh…stumbled into a situation, here. I’m gonna need some help.”
“I’ll call Jess right away, you want me to.”
“Call Buddy, too. I’d like to get together tomorrow night, if it’s okay with everybody.”
“Okay with everybody?” You disappear for years, now I get a call from you out of the blue and you wanna know if it’s okay? It’s fan-fucking-tastic!”
P.W. laughed, but this time it sounded different than his usual chortles. It came from deep inside him and had a joyous life to it.
“Hey, one more thing,” P.W. said. “You heard anything about Travis?”
“Travis? Not since you told me you’d talked to him. You said he was still at the Pentagon. That was about, oh, seven years ago, maybe more.”
“That long?” P.W. muttered, frowning.
“Yeah, that long.”
“You don’t know if he’s still there?”
“Nope. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. I may look him up.”
“Jeez, P.W. what’s going on that you need to look up somebody at the Pentagon?”
“It’s a long story, and I’ll tell you the whole thing tomorrow night. I’ll give you a call in the morning, okay, Ty?”
“It’s sure great to hear from you, P.W., really great. Just…don’t go disappearing again, okay?”
“You got a deal.”
After hanging up, P.W. leaned back in the recliner again and paged through the book for another name, but he was distracted by the blinking red light on the answering machine beside the telephone. Thinking there might be a message on the machine that McNolte needed to hear, P.W. reached over and hit the play button.
The first message was from McNolte’s agent, and it went on and on. P.W. hit the FWD/SKIP button. There was a sharp beep, then the second message began. It was a man’s voice, unfamiliar to P.W., low, even, and ominous. P.W. frowned as he listened, but at one point, his eyebrows popped up high on his forehead.
The message ended. It was the last one on the machine. P.W. rewound the tape and listened to it again, more carefully this time.
When it finished, he leaned back in the recliner, tugging on his beard thoughtfully. After a moment, he returned his attention to the book, thumbing through it until he found the name he was looking for.
Leland Travis. He had been a warrant officer when P.W. had met him, but he was a full colonel now. P.W. was uncertain what he did at the Pentagon, but if he was still there, he might be able to help. After all, he had owed P.W. a favor since 1972.
P.W. was a staff sergeant in the army back then, doing his time in Vietnam. He was heading up a Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol team—known as LRRPs or “lurps”—with Ty and a guy named Wilby. They had been behind enemy lines for days, quietly observing, gathering intelligence on an enemy troop build-up. When the time came, they were picked up by a Huey “slick” on a designated hilltop.
As the Huey lifted off from the pick-up point, a barrage of heavy machine gun fire came from the ridgeline opposite them. Inside the chopper, ballet-like bursts of blood and bone accompanied the barely audible gunfire from the ridge. P.W.’s forehead was badly cut and a grazing bullet cut a trench across his thigh, another passed through the beefy flesh of Wilby’s upper right arm, and Ty came through it untouched, but the pilot and door gunner were killed instantly. The co-pilot was badly injured and bleeding, but not dead.
The chopper nose-dived toward the ground as the co-pilot cried out in pain and horror, vomiting on himself and his controls. But he maintained enough presence of mind to pull the nose up enough so the chopper belly-flopped onto the ground.
The lurps were shaken, but P.W. knew they did not have time to pull themselves together; they had to move immediately, because the gunfire continued, and it would only get closer. He snapped his teammates into action and they carried the bloodied, groaning co-pilot from the chopper and across the deadly clearing in which they were so vulnerable toward a thicket of small trees and underbrush. They were a few yards from cover when the chopper, which stood between them and the machine gun fire, exploded with an ear-popping whump, and the impact slammed all of them to the ground. They scrambled the rest of the way clumsily, pulling the co-pilot with them.
When the enemy soldiers got too close, Wilby moved on with the co-pilot while P.W. and Ty stayed back and set up an ambush. They killed three NVA troops silently, quickly, and efficiently, leaving their bodies behind in the kind of shape that would make the rest of the troops continue their pursuit with great caution and fear. P.W. and Ty caught up with the others and together, they moved on.
P.W. and Wilby began popping their Benzedrine tabs like jelly beans, and they stopped long enough to give the co-pilot a shot of morphine to keep him from crying out in pain.
“Goddammit, leave me,” the co-pilot rasped after getting the injection. “I’ll lay low, you can go ahead and get help. I’m just slowing you down.”
“No offense, babe,” P.W. whispered, “but shut the fuck up. You’re comin’ with us.”
Several times, P.W. and Wilby held back to delay pursuing NVA troops, but finally caught up with Ty and the co-pilot.
The three moved as fast as they could to reach the next landing zone far enough ahead of the enemy troops so they could be picked up safely by another chopper. The next one lifted off with machine gun fire right behind it, but the second time, they escaped without a hitch.
The co-pilot was Leland Travis, and that was the last action he ever saw. But he stayed in the military, working his way up through the ranks. He had told P.W. and Ty back then—and had repeated it several times since—that he owed them big-time and would be happy to oblige anytime they needed a favor, as long as it was within his ability.
P.W. finally was going to call in that favor all these years later. Travis was not going to like it, but it certainly was within his ability, and although it was against P.W.’s nature to insist, in a situation like this he would if he had to.
P.W. punched the number into the phone and waited through two rings.
“Travis.”
“Hello, Colonel. P.W. Meredith calling.”
“P.W.?” His voice boomed pleasantly over the line. “Goddamn, it’s been a long time!”
“I know, and I’m sorry for losin’ touch.”
P.W. learned that Travis was, indeed, still at the Pentagon, where he had worked his way up even further since they had last spoken; he walked with a cane now instead of a crutch and a brace, but his leg gave him hell in the cold winter months. When Travis asked about P.W.’s life, P.W. gave amiable but evasive answers. The only thing that connected the two of them was that one experience in 1972 when their lives had crossed paths; beyond that, they were little more than strangers. There was not even enough small talk to last long.
“Hey, Colonel,” P.W. said, “you know, I’m not one for callin’ in favors, especially when it’s for something anybody in my shoes woulda done, but I—”
“Bullshit, P.W. I owed you then, and I owe you now. I haven’t forgotten. By the way, it’s General Travis now. What can I do for you?”
P.W. paused to choose his words, deciding how best to approach the favor.
“I need someone to tell me about OdysseyCorp Labs and a man named Landon Shaw.”
The ensuing silence from Virginia was long, so long that for a moment P.W. thought the connection had been severed.
“You still there?” P.W. said.
“Yes, still here. Uh…I’m not sure I understand.”
“Look, we don’t need to dance around this. I already know a lot more about this than your average civilian, and I know I’m puttin’ my ass in the crosshairs by talkin’ to you about it, but…you said you owed me, and you said you’d do anything within your ability, so I—”
“What do you know, P.W.?”
“I know that OdysseyCorp does weapons research and development for the Pentagon.”
“That’s not exactly top secret information.”
“Oh, I know that any reporter worth his salt could dig up that much. But I also know that the work OdysseyCorp’s doing for the government is being sold under the table to outside interests. The highest bidder. One of the projects underway there has gotten some friends of mine into trouble. And it’s gotten a lot of people killed. Just tonight. And the night is young. Now, I don’t give a bug’s behind what new toys the government’s cooking up, I really don’t. Hell, even if I did, what difference would it make? I haven’t thought of it as my government since my junior high civics class, know what I’m sayin’? It’s just that my friends are in some pretty hot water and they didn’t do a damned thing to get themselves there. I just wanna help them out, okay?”
Another long silence, then: “Why don’t you tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know everything, keep that in mind. I sorta came in on the middle of this movie.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He began telling General Leland Travis what sounded to P.W. like a tall and preposterous tale.
28.
Jorgan and Miranda
* * *
As P.W. talked with his old friend on the phone in McNolte’s apartment, Dr. Jorgan, too, was talking on the phone in his office, but not with a friend.
“Are you sure?” Landon Shaw said. “Are you absolutely positive?”
Jorgan rolled his eyes, wanting to slam the receiver against the desktop until it shattered, as if it were Shaw’s skull. It was not the first time during the conversation that he had felt such an urge.
“I said that I am not positive,” Jorgan said, speaking slowly, as if to a child. “I am as sure as I can be given the time constraints.”
“Time constraints? What the fuck are you talking about, time constraints? Is that some kind of excuse, or something, Jorgan?”
“Four days. That’s all I’ve had, Mr. Shaw.” You miserable fucking demon, Jorgan added silently. “In four days, I’ve done more than most could in four weeks. I cannot guarantee you that it will work flawlessly, but it’s all we’ve got right now, until I come up with something more solid. But that will take time and this is ready now. I can say with some degree of certainty that it will—”
“All right, all right.” Shaw sounded winded and his voice was ragged, as if he had been shouting a lot lately. “You’ve come up with something that will stop that-that-that…thing she does, yes?”
Jorgan rolled his eyes. Truly, the man was a moron. It was frightening to think that Shaw was overseeing an operation as awesome as OdysseyCorp but understood so little of what was going on within its walls. Worse, the man had pathetic listening skills.
“As I said a moment ago, Mr. Shaw, it will not stop her abilities, but it will likely curtail them.”
“Curtail? What the hell does that mean.”
“It will severely reduce the impact of her abilities. Do you understand?”
“With a single injection?”
“Yes. You can use it in a dart gun. One shot should do the trick.”
“Well, it’s the best we’ve got right now, I guess. But you’ll keep working.” It was a firm order, not a question.
“Of course I will. But before this can work, you have to find her.”
Shaw sighed. When he spoke again, all the angry, bitter energy that made his voice the harsh, ugly sound that it was seemed to disappear. He sounded exhausted. “Yes, I know. And I think we’ve found her.”
“Oh? That’s remarkable. So soon, I mean. Where is she?”
“Some big mission in the city.”
“A mission?”
“Yes. With a man who—” Shaw made a primitive grunting sound into the phone, then his voice returned in all its ugliness: “Goddammit, what business is it of yours? You handle the mad scientist shit and leave the rest to me, Jorgan, you got that?”
Jorgan did not reply immediately. He did not want Shaw to hear his smile in his voice.
“Yes, Mr. Shaw. I’ve already put vials in the drop box in my lab. You can send someone to pick them up.”
“I will. And you’d better hope it works.” His last sentence was spoken with little conviction, as if only out of duty. He hung up.
Jorgan stood behind his desk and started to make his way around it to leave the office when Miranda appeared in the open doorway.
“What are you doing?” she said, her voice heavy and completely without inflection. It was a dead voice, as flat and cold as a slab of concrete.
Jorgan stopped and blinked several times as he looked at her. She was almost unrecognizable.
Face red and puffy, the flesh around her eyes appeared swollen. Several strands of her black hair, which was so thick and straight that it was hard to muss, were tossed and tangled, in disarray, as if she had been scrubbing both hands through it viciously before stepping into the doorway. Her round shoulders sagged more than usual as she leaned heavily against the doorjamb, staring at him.
“What are you talking about?” he said. “And what are you doing here at this hour? Shouldn’t you be home in bed? We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”
She neither moved nor spoke, and her eyes continued to stare at him, looking as dead and cold as her voice sounded.
“I was in your apartment a little while ago.” Her lips hardly moved at all. “You’ve packed two suitcases. And I was standing out here. Just now. I heard what you said to Mr. Shaw. I know it’s a lie. The whole thing. You haven’t been working on anything. You’ve been brooding, that’s all. Like a lovesick teenager. Silent all the time. Sad eyes. Shuffling around. Not eating. Not talking. To me. Not spending time. With me.” Her tongue moved slowly over her lips and she gulped thickly. “Ignoring me. Like I’m not here. Even when I get in your face and talk to you, yuh-you’re like…like a zombie. So, Dr. Jorgan. What are you doing?”
His mind raced, too unnerved by her to lock onto a satisfactory reply.
“What are you giving them?” she said, pushing herself with some effort from the doorjamb and moving toward him slowly. “What are you leaving in the drop box? Saline, maybe? Just some kind of saline solution? You know Shaw wouldn’t know an effective serum from Gatorade, right? So maybe it’s nothing more than plain old tap water. They’ll shoot her with it. It won’t work. Won’t do a thing. And then she can flame them. Kill them. Is that what you have in mind, Dr. Jorgan?”
“That is ridiculous,” he said, surprised by how calm he sounded. Beneath the weight of Miranda’s dead stare, it was a calm he did not feel inside. “I won’t dignify it with a response.” He turned to his desk and swept up a couple of file folders. He was not even sure what was in them, but he wanted to look as if he had purpose when he left the office. Facing her again, he started forward and stepped around her.
She grabbed his arm, clutched his elbow with surprising strength, her short, round-nailed fingers digging into his flesh hard, hurting him. When he tried to wrench his arm from her grasp, he was startled—and a little frightened, he admitted to himself—to find that he could not. He looked down at her hand, about to shout at her, but when he looked into her eyes, much closer now than a moment ago, he thought better of it and simply remained silent, lips pulled back over his clenched teeth.
In spite of the strength with which she held him, her face had not changed. Her eyes were two dead orbs, glistening only with the moisture that clung around their lower edges. Her bloated face remained expressionless as she stared at him from beneath the hood of her brow.
Jorgan had seen eyes like Miranda’s before. They had belonged to patients he had seen in psych wards, people so deeply immersed in depression, despair, and delusion that they were no longer seeing the world around them as it really existed, but only as a world of dense, cloying darkness in which every detail was part of an endless conspiracy against them, the victims of uncontrollable dark forces, unholy powers, angry Fates.
